


For Nothing Now Can Ever Come to Any Good

by starsandgutters



Series: 9x23 coda [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, coda to 9x23, implied character death (temporary)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:55:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <pre><i>The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.</i>
</pre>
<p>As it turns out, even with his grace burned down to almost nothing, Castiel can still hear prayers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Nothing Now Can Ever Come to Any Good

As it turns out, even with his grace burned down to almost nothing, Castiel can still hear prayers. Stripped of his wings, robbed of his strength, and barely able to heal, he can still tune in to other people’s calling. He heard Metatron’s speech, his hateful voice loud and clear as a bell. And he hears _this_ now.

 

***

 

He spends a long time sitting in Metatron’s study, beforehand, staring at the bloodied angel sword, feeling sick to his stomach. He has seen Dean’s blood before ‒ hell, he has _drawn_ Dean’s blood, by the brutal assault of his fists, blow after blow, and there cannot be a lasting enough penance for _that_ ‒ but this is different.

Dean is dead.

Dean is  _dead_ and it sounds like a lie. Surely not _Dean_ , Dean Winchester, Dean of the impossible plans and unbelievable resilience, Dean of the righteous fight, of the laugh that brightens the spheres.

It sounds like a horrible lie and he wishes he could break into Metatron’s cell and beat the lie out of him, pummeling his mouth until he spits blood and with it, the truth.

(When Castiel considers that _this is the truth,_ he wants to kill Metatron with his bare hands. Reach into his chest and rip out his heart; maybe then he’d feel like Castiel does. That’s only fair, isn’t it?)

But the last thing he needs is to start another burst of chaos in Heaven, especially when the Winchesters‒‒ especially when Sam is‒‒ when Dean‒‒

He stays still. Looks away from the blade.

If he were human, he would cry. He wants to. He has known crying during his human days, the hot ugly pain in his chest and the relief that comes afterwards. But the spark of grace inside him prevents the tears from coming, and he knows that he can’t give up this grace, not yet, even rotten and broken as it is, if he is to fix Heaven. And so, he can only wish for it to be _more_ : more powerful, more brilliant, more removed from humanity. If he can’t have relief, then at least Castiel wants numbness. To feel for Dean’s death what an angel ‒ _any_ other angel ‒ would feel: grief, a distant one. A sense of loss to the universal tapestry woven by his Father. Contemplation.

Anything, God, _anything_ but this howling blackness clawing at his chest, as dry as dust, as bitter as bile.

 

***

 

He thinks of Sam, too. Of how Sam will suffer. He knows the brothers had not been on the best of terms; can’t remember if they _ever_ were, to be honest. But he also knows they love ‒ _loved_ ‒ each other deeply, fiercely, death‒defyingly. Yes, Sam loved his brother very much, Castiel knows. Not loving Dean was impossible, and it was a burden they shared, silently.

Castiel thinks of going to him. Sam is his friend, and Sam is grieving. Castiel _should_ go to him, offer comfort; maybe Sam will need a hug; maybe they could grieve together. For a sharp moment, he longs to leave, to get in his car and drive to Kansas without ever stopping, just to share this ‒ this grief, this hole ripped in both of their lives ‒ and make it even the slightest bit more tolerable.

Then Castiel considers that going to the bunker would mean not only seeing Sam, but seeing _Dean_ ; Dean’s _dead body,_ and Castiel has been around that block before, has brought Dean back to life once before, but he _knows_ in the depth of his bones that he won’t be strong enough to, this time, and the thought makes him want to scream, to run in the opposite direction.

He used to be so powerful, so _pure._ He remembers every second of it: reaching out through the filth and murky smoke of Hell to snatch that soul ‒ that blackened, mutilated, yet still fiercely shining soul ‒ from perdition, he remembers touching his grace ‒ _his_ grace ‒ to rotten flesh and broken bones, reviving, rebuilding, _creating._

Castiel thinks about that day and longs to cry, and cannot cry, and chooses to be cowardly for a few minutes more.

And then he hears _it._

 

***

 

_Cas._

 

 

One word. One syllable, broken and choked; the sound of it as lost and confused as a child’s cry.

One syllable, and Castiel’s word fills with colour and light and warmth the likes of which he has never, in his eons of life, dared to dream of.

 

***

 

“Dean. Dean?” It breaks out of him trembling and cracked at the edges, as he stands up from his seat abruptly, forgetting that Dean cannot possibly hear him back, forgetting everything but the sound of that voice he’d believed lost forever.

“Dean, is that you?” _Speak again. Please, God, please, Father, let him speak again._ Castiel has his hands wrapped around the edge of the desk, the wood splintering under his grip, his stolen grace flaring up with the storm inside him.

 

_Cas, you got… you got your ears on?_

 

“Dean.” Castiel smiles, and breathes, and realizes he’d forgotten what air tasted like, what it was like to really be able to expand your lungs. If he were human, he would probably still want to cry ‒ but these are the good tears, he knows, tears of joy, of gratefulness. He swallows past the phantom impulse, and he settles in, focusing all of his attention on the forthcoming words. Soon he’ll get into his car and drive to the bunker, drive _home._ Drive to Dean. But for now he needs to listen, to hear this: Dean’s prayer; Castiel’s salvation.

 

 _Cas, I’m in trouble. I’m in real deep trouble. I don’t know if you can hear me. Fuck, Cas, I don’t even know if you’re friggin’_ alive _. I hope you are. Please be alive. Please, God, just‒‒ I need you to be alive, okay, Cas?_

 

The intonation in Dean’s prayer makes Castiel’s chest tighten once more. It’s exhausting, this _emotions_ business. Dean sounds so broken, so guilty, and it’s starting to scare him all over again.

But that still doesn’t prepare him for what he hears next.

 

 _You had better be alive, Cas. You had better be because I need you to come here. I_ need _you. I need you to help me out._

_And if you can’t‒‒ if you can’t help, Cas, then I need you to‒‒ I need you to kill me._

 

After that, it’s silence.

 

Castiel is cold to the bone, and air is once again a distant memory.

The next moment, he’s out of the door, running blindly towards home.

Running to _Dean_ , and that’s all that matters.

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title (and lines in the summary) comes from Auden's poem, ["Funeral Blues"](http://homepages.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/auden.stop.html).


End file.
